


Howl

by pprfaith



Series: Howl [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: ALL OF THIS IS RATED T, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bar hook-up, Do I need to warn for language in this fandom?, Gabriel Being Gabriel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Loki!Gabriel, M/M, Morose Dean, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Not Beta Read, Or you know as sexual as I ever get, Pre-Series, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Werewolf Dean Winchester, World's most original title, attempts at humor, lotsa alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-26 00:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16208564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: In which Dean mourns his ability to get drunk, right up until everyone's favorite Norse god helps him out. Shenanigans ensue.Alternately: Dean is a werewolf and Heaven and Hell are screwed.





	Howl

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this happened, okay? Or even when. But I like it and I'm writing more in this verse, so whatever. Anything's better than the massive writer's block I've been having.

+

The bar is a dive. 

Most of the bars Dean frequents are, but this one is especially grimy and comes with the added bonus of a grumpy barkeeper who has been glaring at him since he entered. At some point, Dean actually looks around to make sure he isn’t crashing a private party, or anything. 

But nope, just a really shitty barkeeper in a really shitty mood, taking it out on innocent, money-bearing customers.

It matches Dean’s really shitty day, though, so he actually finds it more amusing than anything. The locals aren’t following the angry dude’s cues, so chances of Dean being chased out by a mob are slim to none and really, all he wants is a quiet place to mourn his ability to get drunk. Preferably with a ready supply of alcohol because he’s a contradictory bastard, okay?

The end. 

He raps the bar with two knuckles. “Another whiskey, man.” 

A belligerent stare, a huff, and then the ‘keep pours. Dean considered asking for some complicated cocktail concoction, but the risk of the Grumpy spitting into it are too high. He slaps a fifty on the counter, points a finger at the bottle. “Leave that, yeah?” 

Raised eyebrow, curled lip and the man actually pulls the pourer off the bottle before leaving it, just to be an asshole. “Jesus,” Dean mutters to himself. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

The man two seats down the bar snorts quietly into his cream liquor, which, yuck. Booze? Yes. Candy? Yes. Both in one? Hell, no. Dean catches a whiff of him, sugar and alcohol and ozone and something that feels cloying on his tongue and stuffy in his nose. It makes him want to sneeze, but there’s no sweat, no waste, not even laundry detergent. Not a single one of the myriad smells that always cling to any living creature. Nothing except the drink on his lips and that hot-bright ozone stench. 

Dean half turns toward the sandy-haired man, nostrils flaring to take in more of the strange scent, and catches sight of something… dark and wide arcing behind the man, like a flaring coat, only bigger, darker and substantially less substantial. Almost like… 

…nah. 

Nah. 

A split second glimpse out of the corner of his eyes and then it’s gone. Might as well have imagined it. 

Still. Not human, not by a long shot. 

Once, he wouldn’t have been able to tell. But then, once he wouldn’t have believed that a monster can just sit in a shitty dive bar, drinking peacefully. And now here he is, doing exactly that, next to a _thing_ just like him. Only, you know, apparently not alive, because that smell is just whack. 

It’s all blurred lines, these days.

Live and learn. 

The man meets his gaze with his own, bright eyes, flashes him a brief smile and then turns back to his drink again.

Following his lead, Dean picks up his whiskey, toasts his reflection in the mirror behind the bar and announces, “Happy second birthday to me. Fuck it.”

And downs the drink.

Pours, downs another. Makes short work of a quarter of the bottle before _sugar and ozone_ is suddenly there, closer than before. The warmth of a body settles next to him, the new wave of that strange scent making his nose twitch, and the stranger says, “You know, you don’t _look_ two, but if you are, you shouldn’t be drinking like that, kiddo.”

Against his will, Dean snorts. “Not that kind of second birthday,” he explains, downs yet another. Doesn’t look at the stranger because he doesn’t really want to _see_.

“Ahhhh,” Stranger drawls, mock-wisely, nodding to himself. “That explains everything.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Catches a glimpse. Up close, the man’s eyes are almost golden and the face around them is perfectly average. Boring. A bit on the short side, this guy, big nose, big ears, floppy hair. Charm oozing from every pore. Utterly human.

Dean waits for that flare of _something_ again, but it never comes. Only that scent sticks with him, stifling in its sweetness. He turns fully, facing the other guy. The thing inside of him doesn’t like it when he lets anyone at his flank, because it leaves him vulnerable. Head on is better. Head on means an easier kill.

He hums.

“Wanna tell me what that’s about?” A glint of humor in the stranger’s eyes, like he knows what Dean’s thinking, the instincts that override his human desire to be stand-offish. Like it amuses him. It makes Dean want to bare his teeth and snarl.

“Not a very good story,” he cautions, half wondering why he isn’t blowing this guy off completely. Could just leave, but he was here first and he wants to drink, damn it. Even if it does nothing for him anymore. Even if the smell of whiskey on his own breath always reminds him of being sixteen and sitting down across from John, getting drunk for the first time. Rite of passage, the old man said. Dean was so proud then. Now, he pretends it never happened. It’s easier, keeping the few happy memories shoved down deep and focusing on that last night. Focusing on the pain, the hurt, the loss. Keeps him from running back to a man who was never home and a little brother who’d hate him now. Keeps him sane. Hate’s always been easier than love, for a Winchester. And even if he doesn’t use that name anymore, it’s not really something he can leave behind.

“Tell me anyway.” A hand wave and a grin, Bailey’s straight, leave that bottle, too, thanks. 

“Four years ago today,” Dean starts grandly, pauses dramatically and quickly finishes with, “I got left for dead. Didn’t die. Happy fucking second birthday to me.”

There’s a pause. “That’s not a very good story.” 

“Then fuck off?”

A chuckle. “Nah. Let’s work on that story. It needs some details. Like where and when and how and probably a monster. Stories are always better when you have a monster. Makes the whole morality thing a lot clearer, dontcha think? Clears the sides right up.”

There’s a twinkle in his eye and he might as well have said, “I know what you are.”

“Dude, this monster just wants to drink in peace.”

“Why? It’s not like you’re getting drunk off this?”

Dean taps a slightly darker than normal nail against the other man’s (monster’s) glass. It’s a warning, in and of itself. “At a guess, neither are you.”

Cheeky grin, wide and playful. “No, but I like the taste. Can’t beat anything with that much sugar in it. But if we’re drinking,” he trails off, snaps his fingers. 

A new bottle appears between them, opaque glass with an ornate pattern. It looks like leaves and vines and nothing Dean should probably touch. It’s got a cork and a wax seal and is dusty as hell and yeah, no touching. Probably costs more than his entire belongings put together. Which isn’t actually all that much, but. Lisa gave him a pretty sweet watch last Christmas and it probably doubled his net worth, so there is that. 

The stranger cracks the seal with his teeth, leans over the bar to snatch two clean glasses and pours something amber colored and viscous into them before passing one to Dean.

“What the hell is that?”

“Asgardian mead. Try it. Pulls the panties right off your cute little butt. Strong as hell and, unless I’m missing my guess, you haven’t been drunk in four years, have you? Yeah, thought so. This is going to be a blast.”

“Who the hell are you, man?”

The grumpy barkeeper chooses that moment to notice the contraband bottle between them and shoots over, a sneer firmly planted on his face. Dean groans. He’s been here thirty minutes and he’s wanted to punch this dude in the face for twenty-eight of them. “You can’t drink that shit in here, asshole. You don’t drink nothing you didn’t pay for.”

Dean opens his mouth to smart back, but his new drinking buddy snaps his fingers again and then, blandly, remarks, “Your coffee maker seems to be on fire.”

And, yep, at the far end of the bar, an ancient coffee maker is suddenly belching smoke. Which is funny, because Dean didn’t smell coffee at all, before. Like no-one has used the machine in weeks, at least. It probably wasn’t even plugged in. The barkeeper curses and scuttles off to put out the fire. 

“Where were we? Ah, right. Loki, at your service.”

Dean blinks. Asgardian mead? Loki?

“Are you saying you’re the fucking god of tricks?”

“Oh,” Loki jeers, not entirely without scorn, “look who cracked a book!”

“Fuck you!”

“Later. First, let’s get smashed.”

Dean considers. He considers the likelihood of this god (really? Fucking really?) having nefarious intentions, of this mead being poisoned, of his day getting any better and his chances of survival in case of dickish probably-god with the ability to make random shit happen with a snap of his fingers. Considers everything his father had ever drummed into his head about distrust and caution and the innate evil of all monsters. Considers.

Shrugs.

Fuck this. 

Clinking glasses with the Norse god of lies, he tips back his drink. 

+

Three hours later Dean is pleasantly drunk and the bar around them is largely in shambles. Loki keeps coming up with new catastrophes every time the barkeeper tries to yell at them. He imploded a keg, broke a shelf that sent about five hundred bucks worth of liquor everywhere, tipped over chairs, broke pool cues and, at one point, started a fight in the far corner. The fuse box is on the fritz, randomly shorting out things all over the place, the sink is leaky and there are suddenly peanut shells everywhere. 

When Dean had arrived, this bar didn’t serve peanuts. 

Two bottles into the godly drink of doom, he finds all of it absolutely hilarious because, seriously, the dick kind of deserves to have his bar pulled to pieces. Just a little. Besides, the peanut shells are actually an improvement over the sticky, never-been-washed wooden floors. There’s a splinter sticking up under Dean’s seat that’s big enough to kill a medium sized dog with. 

Loki’s matching him drink for drink and regaling him with all kinds of unlikely stories, including a Hindu goddess with the Kama Sutra memorized, some dwarves and a bet, a horse and two hunters in the eighties. Occasionally, he magics up images to go with the stories and some of the grimaces he pulls should not be anatomically possible.

It’s the most fun Dean had had in…. years. Longer, probably. 

(Fireworks. Sammy. But he doesn’t think of that.)

He laughs so hard he cries in some places and Loki looks so fucking proud of himself every time and keeps showing off for Dean and at one point, the roof starts making strange, groaning noises and Dean grabs the other monster by the elbow and decides, “Let’s get out of here.”

Loki’s grin has way too many teeth in it as he lets himself be dragged toward the exit with a finger wave at the desperate barkeeper trying to find the leak in the sink because the water’s getting everywhere and the faucet won’t turn off anymore. 

Outside, Dean pulls him toward his car, a ’72 Mustang with a shitty, faded paintjob and an engine that purrs like a kitten once he turns it over (He still misses Baby), pulling out of the lot with gusto and then asking, “Where the hell are we going?”

With that same toothy grin, Loki sets a hand on Dean’s jean-clad knee and slowly draws it upward, pausing every inch or so for a reaction. 

Dean looks down at the hand when fingers are grazing his inseam, then gives the god next to him a cocked eyebrow. Loki shrugs and moves his hand another inch. 

“Come on, Deano. We could break a few beds, easy.”

“And what makes you think I’d want to?”

“Well, for one, you haven’t tried to claw my face off, yet.”

“I’m driving.”

“Also, you think I’m hot.”

“So are stoves. I don’t bang those.”

“Oh, come on! I shared my mead with you!”

“To get me drunk.”

“And now you’re drunk driving. You should pull over into that motel over there. We should get a room.” Loki bats his eyelashes and grins at his own bad, bad pickup line. 

Against his will, Dean chuckles. “Not like a crash would kill either of us and there’s no-one else on the streets this time of night. Also,” he takes a sharp turn into the motel parking lot, “I already have a room.”

“Excellent! I hope it has a king!”

And really, why the hell not? The guy’s funny, easy going, not human, and pretty decent company. Dean has fucked worse for worse reasons. It’s his birthday. Second birthday. The one in January he spent with his godson making an unholy mess of his birthday cake on his lap in an entirely un-Winchesterly fashion. This one, at least, he gets to get smashed and be an idiot. 

Besides, he has no reason to be careful. His body can take a lot more damage these days than four years ago and there’s no-one left for him to look out for. No-one to protect, to get up early for, to get to school, to shelter. No-one to be afraid for. Sure, Lisa and Ben would miss him, but he doesn’t kid himself into believing they need him. 

These days, the only one impacted by his shitty choices is him.

He pulls the car into its spot and gets out. Leans against the hood, waiting. 

Loki joins him a second later, a smile crinkling his eyes. “You can actually tell me to fuck off, Deano,” he allows, something wry in his expression. 

Dean shrugs. “Never fucked a god before.”

And then, before the smaller man can turn it into a joke, he closes the distance between them and kisses him. Sugar and booze and ozone and still nothing human at all. 

Loki makes a point of hitching himself closer and mapping Dean’s entire mouth with his tongue before pulling back with a pleased hum. “Mhm. Tastes like big, bad wolf.”

“Yeah? You kind of taste like the inside of a copy shop.”

He twists away from Loki’s retaliatory swat and jogs up the few steps toward his door, getting it unlocked just as two hundred pounds of Norse god slam into his back and they tumbled inside, all limbs and laughter, to land on the disgusting carpeting. Dean grunts and wiggles until at least he isn’t face-down anymore and suddenly, he’s eye to eye with the other man. Who grins. 

“I’ll have you know I’m much more versatile in bed than any copy machine.”

“I should hope so.”

“Mhm. Yes. You’re welcome to sit on me bare-assed, though.”

“…Or not.”

Loki mock-sneers and starts pulling off his shirt, throwing it somewhere out of sight before grabbing for Dean’s and yanking.

It takes them about three barrel rolls, half a dozen stops to make out and a lot of semi-drunk giggling, but eventually they’re naked and right next to the bed, so Dean uses some of that supernatural strength of his and more of less throws Loki up onto it before following after, crawling up the other man’s body until he’s right where he wants to be. He grinds down and back, smirks wickedly and slowly, so slowly, gyrates his hips. 

Loki groans, head thrown back, hair static-y against the cheap bedspread. 

“How are we doing this, wolfie?”

“How would you like it, _godling_?” Dean counters, earning himself a chuckle.

“You know, if you’re trying to get me to stop with the nicknames, this really isn’t the way to do it,” Loki mutters, low and breathless, leaning up to haul Dean in for another round of kissing “Us god types, we get off on worship, Dean.”

“Worked, though,” Dean counters, working his way down Loki’s jaw and neck toward his chest. “You just called me by my name.”

With another huff, Loki flips them and, before Dean can even think of retaliating, pins his hips in place with both hands and goes down.

Way down. 

Dean bucks, groans and actually doesn’t manage another quip for at least thirty seconds. 

+

At some point, those great, arcing shadows flare wide enough to cover the entire ceiling from Dean’s view. 

Sometime before that, or maybe after, Dean’s eyes turn to liquid, glowing gold and his teeth are sharp enough for even a little nip to draw blood. 

Loki just grins and grinds down harder. 

+

The thing is, Gabriel has always had shitty impulse control. Q.E.D, he thinks, as he tries to untangle himself from Dean Winchester in the early morning hours without waking the man. He could put a spell on him, force him to sleep, yes, but he doesn’t really want to because – 

Well. Shitty impulse control. 

Duh. 

He only meant to take a peek. Only meant to get a little glimpse of the man that had, single-handedly, derailed a plan several thousand years in the making, possibly forever. 

Four years ago today – yesterday, now – bitten, infected and left for dead by his own father, Dean Winchester threw out all the plans Heaven and Hell ever had for him. 

Never got bit? The Plan goes fine. 

Died before the change took hold? Plan can take it. Resurrection is peanuts to archangels. 

But this? Alive but _changed_ , twisted, something inhuman and unholy and not of God’s creation? That was enough to break the apocalypse before it even started because even Michael can’t ride a werewolf and there is no cure for what Dean is now. 

Not that he looks like he needs it. John Winchester’s model soldier took to being a monster with gusto and control and Gabriel wants to laugh and laugh and laugh because everyone always thought Sam would be the problematic one. They thought Dean was too much of a soldier to make any trouble, but oh, were they wrong. 

So really, is it any wonder Gabriel got fascinated? And then Dean had to be smart and funny and utterly careless and, well. 

Fast forward six hours to an archangel turned trickster attempting to sneak out of the Righteous Man turned werewolf’s motel room at 5 am after a hilarious, acrobatic and absolutely amazing bout of sex. 

He’s almost home-free when a sleepy voice asks, “You’re bailing?”

He grins at the squinting man on the bed and waves his boxers, which he just found behind the shitty TV set in the corner. “Why? Were you going to bring me breakfast in bed?”

Dean huffs a tired laugh and leans up on one elbow, stretching luxuriously, all bare skin and hard muscles and damn it, why does he have to be so _pretty_? “I was thinking more along the lines of you, me, diner, pancakes and bacon and maybe an explanation for why you’ve been stealth stalking me.”

Gabriel blinks. “What?” 

He was invisible and cloaked, Dean should not have been able to perceive him at all. But the young man just taps the side of his nose. “Ozone, man. Makes me want to sneeze every time. Been following me around for the past two days, haven’t you?”

“You knew? And you still slept with me?”

A shrug.

Father save him from suicidal maniacs. He could have done _anything_ to the kid and he still – 

“Idiot.”

Dean flaps a hand at him. “Worked out, didn’t it. So. Why?”

For a moment, Gabriel considers just zapping out of there and being done. The apocalypse is a moot point because even if they can find another Righteous Man and condemn him to hell, Mike would have to go to the prom naked and true vessels take time and breeding and care and it’ll be millennia before another comes along. 

He never has to see Dean again. 

For some reason what he does instead is drop his boxers and crawl back onto the bed, until he’s straddling Dean’s thighs and staring down at him, at the bruises from their last bout, already mostly gone.

“Because I was curious about you, Dean Winchester,” he says, and it’s the truth. 

Dean stiffens, briefly. “I go by Campbell, these days,” he corrects as he forces himself to relax and Gabriel wants to snort at the irony of it, of abandoning one hunter’s name only to take up another. 

Dean catches his brief grimace, shrugs. “Yeah. I didn’t know about Mom at the time, so.”

“You know?”

“I’ve learned… a lot about the world out there, in the past few years. A lot John never knew.”

John. Not Dad. 

“So, what’s so interesting about me?”

“Well, nothing really,” Gabriel offers. “Not anymore. Not as you are now. But when you were still human,” he pauses, considers, notices Dean stiffen beneath him again and curses his mouth. “Not like that. Not – hell, you know I’m not human. But you – Heaven and Hell converged on you. There were plans thousands of years in the making and they all hinged on you and you went and fucked them over royally by crawling out of that forest alive, and changed.”

Despite not having anything to do with it, Gabriel feels himself swell with pride. What Dean pulled off, that’s the trick of a lifetime. Several lifetimes. 

“And that’s… a good thing?”

“Considering the alternative would have ended with the world in shambles, yeah. I’d say so. I wanted to meet the man that made Heaven do a spit take.” He winks. “I didn’t expect you to be so hot. And willing. And entertaining.”

Dean chuckles, easing back down into the suspiciously more comfortable than before mattress. “Glad to be of service, then.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re awesome. I didn’t stand a chance. I was seduced by your unintentional power of fucking things over.”

“Good. So. Breakfast?”

+

+

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you know what the hell that was, let me know before you go!


End file.
